Aloe
by ncfan
Summary: A Language of Flowers oneshot. Aloe stands for grief. "Just give me a balm for this grief." Yugao's aftermath has lasted for over a year.


Here's the eleventh entry in _The Language of Flowers_ series. Entry eleven features Uzuki Yugao. If you don't remember who she is, she was Hayate's ANBU girlfriend.

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

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Aloe means grief.

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A plant grows near the memorial stone. It is tall with spiny red flowers. As Yugao understands (one of her friends, a botanist who uses her plants to mix poisons), it is Aloe hereroensis, a flowering plant more commonly found in the desert than in the well-watered village of Konohagakure.

It doesn't matter to her as she pries off the cap of the bottle with her teeth, spits it out and swigs deeply. Her long purple hair sways in the sunset wind, mussed and messy from a long day of work; her deep amethyst, almost black eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, but horribly dry.

It's been a year. A whole, interminable year since Hayate died. A lot has happened since then. Many things have changed, others have stayed the same, but one thing will always be the same.

_He's dead. He's dead and he's never coming back._

They say that the aftermath of someone's death is the worst time. That the fallout is terrible, like the suction after a great ship sinks below the surface of the sea, dragging the small, helplessly tossing lifeboats under with them, sucking and drowning, until absolutely nothing is left.

Yugao's aftermath has lasted for over a year.

Hayate's nephew came for a little while today. Yugao allows for a small, mirthless chuckle when she thinks that Udon must have the same chronic ill that Hayate did. Their both the same, always sneezing and coughing, pale face and shadows under and over his eyes. Udon looks a bit like Hayate, too. _"Hey Yugao-obasan, Kaasan wants to know if you'll come for supper." "Sorry Udon, I can't."_

She raises her head to the sinking sun, biting her lip in anger. _They always tell us in the Academy that it's an honor to die for our country. That no shinobi should ever feel grief for one who has fallen in the line of duty. _Yugao snorts, her pale, delicate face contorted hideously._ Yeah, right. No one can ever prepare you for the death of a loved one. Nothing ever happens that doesn't leave you drowning after someone you love dies._

The second swig is much deeper than the first, and Yugao considers never stopping, just letting it fill her lungs until she collapses to the ground and knows no more. _"Come on, Yugao, your drinking habits are starting to resemble Tsunade's! Your liver must be as hard as a rock."_

Yugao doesn't even know who killed him. She lies awake every night in bed, sweating as if in the throes of desire, but in fact it is the throes of violent hatred like a black hole, twisting and turning her soul until it is shaped into the form of a blade, all that, that slicks back her hair and makes her skin glisten with perspiration.

_If I knew who had killed Hayate, I wouldn't…I wouldn't…be answerable for myself. Nothing…in the world…would stop me from taking revenge._

She doesn't know if Hayate's killer is Sand or Sound, if he's alive or dead. She doesn't know if his killer is a man or a woman, what Hayate's murderer's face is. In Yugao's dark nights she imagines a monster, but she knows in all reality his killer is just a man, a human being with hopes and aspirations, confidences and aspirations. A person with a family, a home. And that's what hurts more than anything. Hayate's killer could be walking around happy and healthy, and Yugao can't do a thing about it.

_Hayate…I swore I would avenge your death. But in the end, I can't do a thing._

Yugao begins to walk away, tottering slightly as she does. The absolutely toxic drink she's been imbibing for the past hour has dulled her senses and slowed her reaction time. The buzz in her ears is maddening.

As Yugao walks over a bridge, she stops. The water is black and smooth, and has the presence of red leaves adorning it, just like the red flowers of the aloe plant.

Every last happy time she ever had with Hayate flashes through her mind. Long, hot summer nights and short, cold winter days, and all the spaces in between. Missions and tests, dates and marriage proposals. Her hand tightens around the railing.

Unceremoniously, she tips her bottle and pours the remaining contents into the river below.

_What use is a cure if it kills me before it can cure me?_

_Just please…just give me a balm for this grief._

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Underdeveloped characters are so fascinating.


End file.
